


Le Beau au Bois Dormant

by onepercent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Aurora Enjolras, Disney AU, Fairy Godparents courf Cosette and ferre, M/M, Phillip Grantaire, Probably ooc but I really don’t care, Sleeping Beauty AU, severe overuse of the word "dear"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: The young Prince Enjolras is cursed to fall into eternal sleep once he pricks his finger on a spindle. His parents, the king and queen, send him to live in the forest with his three magical guardians until his eighteenth birthday—that is, until he meets the charming and cynical Grantaire...





	1. Laurel

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is probably very OOC and for that I kind of apologize but not really. Sleeping beauty is my favorite Disney movie, and I felt a very string urge to write this after rewatching it for the eightieth time the other day. Also there is a lot of flower symbolism in this, notes at the end to clarify. 
> 
> Any quotes you recognize are probably from the musical or the brick, but have been modified for my purposes. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

There were formerly a king Stephan and queen Eliza who could bear no child. They wished and prayed, and finally, the queen gave birth to a son. So joyful were the king and queen that they planned a celebration for the day of his birth where everyone, rich or poor, relative or stranger, friend or foe, could come and rejoice for their new prince. One of the most rejoiceful was the king Grantaire, who had been hoping to form an alliance with Stephan and Eliza, and brought his only son to the ceremony to introduce him, hopefully to be betrothed to the future prince. 

(“It’s just a baby,” said his grimacing son Rene, who had just turned four years old. “I don’t see what’s so special about it.” His father had just laughed, ruffled his son’s fluffy black hair, and returned to the wine and festivities.)

And so their guests came, bearing gifts upon gifts to the small child, who was being rocked quietly in a crib by his grateful mother.

Most notable of these guests was the three good fairies of the kingdom, named Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Combeferre. They were deemed the fairy godparents of the prince by the queen, and thus brought the most special gifts of all for their young child.

Combeferre approached the cradle first, and the whole dining hall was quiet as he went. “Dear child,” he said wistfully, a distinct sparkle in his eye. “I bestow upon you the magic of wisdom and knowledge, and should you not know the truth, then I give you the courage to find it.” He waved his wand, and blue sparks flew, and the baby received the gift with a knowing look on his soft face.

Courfeyrac approached the cradle next, after the applause of the people died down. “Dear boy,” he said, looking down upon the baby with a smile. “I bestow upon you the magic of friendship and laughter, and should you find yourself in despair, then I give you the hope to overcome it.” He too waved his wand, and red sparks flew, and the baby received the gift with a giggle like tinkling bells.

Cosette approached the cradle last, and the hall was as quiet as could be. One could only hear the flapping of her fluttering wings as she leaned over the child, who reached out and grabbed at her finger with his tiny hand. “Dear baby,” she said softly. “I bestow upon you--”

Suddenly, there was a loud bang that echoed about the large room, and black magic began to drip from the ceilings and gather up from the floorboards. As the crowds watched with bated breath, the magic swirled and approached the front of the room, where the king and queen sat on their thrones, between them the baby’s cradle. 

The magic faded away, and everyone gasped. “Thenardier,” said Cosette through gritted teeth, standing between the crib and the witch, whose imposing form was only amplified by the large black crow resting upon one hand and a shimmering green staff in the other. 

“Cosette,” said the witch with an eerily large smile, showing off her pointed white teeth. “And the other fairies, and the king and queen, and, oh…” She turned around theatrically, and all who were pierced by her gaze shrunk in fear. “It seems everyone was invited but me.”

“You weren’t wanted,” hissed Cosette.

“Not wanted?” said Thenardier with false surprise. “I thought it was just a case of a missing invitation…” The crow on her hand cawed in agreement.

“You’re not offended, are you?” asked the queen Eliza nervously--after all, she was the one who had written the guest list.

“Offended? No, of course not, I understand,” cooed the witch, stepping closer. “In fact, I would like to offer a gift to the young prince, to make up for all this fuss.” And with that, she pointed her staff at the cradle and said, “I bestow upon you, dear prince, the gift of death; for before you reach your eighteenth birthday, you shall prick your finger upon a spindle and fall cold to the ground!”

She waved her staff and black sparks flew. Cosette threw herself over the child, but it was of no use, as the curse penetrated the boy and he received it with a screeching wail. The witch Thenardier cackled and disappeared in a puff of green smoke, leaving an air of stunned disbelief in her wake.

Eliza immediately picked up her howling son, rocking and shushing him quiet. “Sh, sh, sh,” she sang. “Don’t you fret, my young Enjolras, I’m here, sh, sh, sh…” The king sent everyone but his family and the godfairies away, and they sat in desperation around the throne.

“What shall we do?” cried Stephan, stroking his son’s yellow hair. “Can you repair the curse, fairies?”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette all shared a solemn glance. “We cannot,” said Combeferre gravely. The king and queen bowed their heads over the child in anguish, and their tears fell like dewdrops down their wrinkled faces. “However,” said Combeferre gently, “Cosette still has her gift, and can lessen the curse. Thenardier’s magic is far too powerful for us to overcome alone, but her wish may help the prince, if you would allow it.”

 

“Anything, oh, anything,” the queen sobbed, and held out the baby Enjolras reluctantly. Cosette took the boy and held him tenderly in one arm, and held her wand with the other.

“My dearest Enjolras,” she said softly. “I bestow upon you the gift of love and passion, and should you ever prick your finger upon a spindle, then I give you the promise of a first true love’s kiss, and may a heart full of light and song help you awaken from eternal slumber.” She waved her wand, and white sparks flew, and the baby received the gift with a small yawn and fell into blessed sleep.

 

“This is terrible,” mourned the red fairy Courfeyrac once they had retired to their room after all the commotion. “We cannot just leave the poor boy to fall into eternal slumber!”

“I’m afraid there is not much else we can do,” replied the blue fairy Combeferre with a heavy sigh. “Thenardier is far too powerful, and she would know immediately if we tried anything to break the curse.”

“I could turn him into a flower, or perhaps a fern,” tried Courfeyrac, his wings flapping about as he absentmindedly flew about the room, deep in thought. “He would be a beautiful green thing, blooming year-round in a wild field somewhere. Flowers don’t have hands, and so he would never prick his finger!”

The white fairy Cosette reached up and grabbed onto Courfeyrac’s foot, tugging him back down to the ground. “That’s all well and good until the witch sends a winter frost or a forest fire.”

Courfeyrac slumped to the floor. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a frown. “But it feels terrible to just sit here and do nothing about it.”

Combeferre then jumped from his seat. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, pulling the other fairies close. “Thenardier can only know if we use magic, so if we take him to a place where he can be raised with no magic, he surely can live until he is eighteen and the curse will be naught!”

Courfeyrac and Cosette nodded. “That is a good idea,” said Cosette, “but who can we find that can take care of him? Everyone in the kingdom knows his name, or how he looks. Nobody could keep the secret for that long.”

“We could do it,” offered Courfeyrac. “We could go out into the woods, for as long as he stays secluded there, far away from anyone who could prick his finger, he shall be safe. Thenardier might have been the one to curse him, but surely there are many enemies of the king that were in attendance to the celebration that would want nothing more than to trick the prince into eternal sleep.”

“Alright then,” said Combeferre with determination. “We will tell the king and queen immediately and be gone by daybreak.”

 

And that they were. Though they mourned the loss of their child, the king and queen were comforted by the knowledge that their son would return once he turned eighteen, ready to become a fit heir to the crown with his betrothed, the prince Grantaire. The fairies parted at midnight after Eliza and Stephan had whispered their goodbyes, and they flitted quietly to the forest in the gleaming light of the moon.

They settled easily into an abandoned cottage nestled among a blanket of thick trees. They repaired its creaking windows and cracked floorboards on that first night with splashes of magical sparks before locking their wands away upstairs so they would not be tempted to use them, lest they attract the witch to their location. The cottage was comfortably near a river and had the remains of a small garden in the back, so they grew vegetables there and picked berries and fruit. One day Cosette walked a far distance to the nearest town and purchased two chickens and a goat for eggs and milk and cheese, and they lived quietly and quaintly with the child they thought of as their own, whom they called Laurel, so as not to reveal his true identity should anyone find them.

Laurel grew up quickly and happily. Combeferre taught him to read with the help from a few books the previous owner of the cottage had left, topics ranging from fairy tales to history to philosophy, and Laurel drank in the knowledge these novels supplied like it was water. By the time he was eight, he was writing his own stories and speeches, which he read to his godparents to their thunderous applause. Courfeyrac taught him to pick flowers and fruit and to know which ones were poisonous and which ones were sweet and which ones he should feed to the rabbits and squirrels that often frequented the cabin. On any given day, Courfeyrac might have looked out the window and seen Laurel sitting on the edge of the river, pontificating to the ducks as he fed them bits of mint. Lastly, Cosette taught him how to speak with a beautiful rhetoric and a musical rhythm, and his harmonious voice could be heard for miles as he went on a walk through the trees. The birds flocked to him as he spoke, perching on his flaxen hair or his delicate, extended fingertip to hear his lovely words.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette loved their child dearly, and felt deeply pleased with how they had raised him. Not only was he very beautiful, with gold sunshine in his hair and lips that shamed the red rose, but he was bright and passionate and cared very much about everyone he met, even the little fish that bit at his toes when the water was too cold to fully swim in. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Poor Laurel had never met any person besides his godparents or the characters in his books. His best friends were bits of ink on paper, and his idea of socializing was discussing theology with his own reflection in the river. His godparents were distressed by their child’s loneliness, but there was nothing to be done. His eighteenth birthday was approaching very soon, and they did not want to risk him meeting someone who had not his best interest at heart.

At last, the final day of his curse came, and Laurel woke just as usual. He tied his hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck and washed his face and tiptoed down the stairs, only to find his godparents standing around the kitchen table, whispering to each other. He cleared his throat and they startled and broke apart. “Good morning,” he said, and they each responded with the appropriate greeting and kissed him on the cheek, though not without their fare share of pointed looks at each other that Laurel could not decipher. Eventually, Combeferre put his hand on Laurel’s shoulder and steered him to the door. 

“Why don’t you go out and pick some more herbs for us,” he said lightly as he opened the door, letting in a stream of light. 

“I picked herbs all day yesterday,” protested Laurel, as all he really wanted to do was go outside and sit underneath the canopy of leaves and write some more. He had gotten a good start on a rather inspired essay the night before under the light of the moon when he was surely supposed to be asleep. 

Cosette just pulled his shawl off the peg near the door and wrapped it around his head and shoulders. “Well, we need more, and it would be good to get out of the house, and it’s a lovely day!”

 

It’s a lovely day everyday, thought Laurel crossly. Courfeyrac handed him a wicker basket and pushed him out of the cottage. “Stay out as long as you’d like, dear!” he said cheerfully. 

“But not too long,” reminded Cosette gently.

“And don’t talk to strangers!” said Combeferre sternly. The door shut firmly, and Laurel was alone.

 

He walked for a little while, humming a familiar tune under his breath as the squirrels and rabbits and birds began to follow. The basket swung from his fingertips, his task of collecting herbs all but forgotten as he became lost in thought. “They treat me like a child,” he said absentmindedly to the pair of blue-jays that fluttered about his head. “I’m almost eighteen, you would think they’d treat me like a real adult every once in awhile.” They just twittered in response, and he ventured on, thinking deeply about the nature of his freedom. He loved his godparents, he respected and appreciated them each dearly, but he wished that one day they might let him go out into the streets of a real village or city and let him talk to real people and hear what they had to say about, oh, anything at all. The thought made him a bit frustrated, and he began to recite one of his favorite poems to the delight of his animal companions. It was his birthday after all, and there was no reason to get angry on his birthday. 

He eventually came across a small clearing and decided this was as good a place as any to take a break. He sat down on a fallen log and laid down his basket as the birds settled on branches behind him and rabbits and squirrels settled about his feet. Upon further inspection, one of his godparents--probably Cosette--had left him a pouch of cheese and strawberries and cucumber tied up with a little string. He split the cheese into halves and broke one of them into pieces that he scattered for the animals, and he took the rest of it and the fruit for himself. 

“I had the strangest dream last night,” he said, nibbling on the block of cheese. The animals looked up earnestly, and a few birds chirped as if to say ‘go on’. “I was taking a walk much like this one, and I stumbled upon a man.”

“Who?” said an owl, gliding down to perch on the log beside him. 

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Laurel. “But he was tall, and handsome, and so smart, and he promised to bring me to his home, where he said I could read to them some of my essays, he knew his family and friends would like them. He knew everything about his town, and all the rest of the kingdom, too, and he looked like…”

“Who? Who?” asked the owl.

“Like a prince, I suppose,” said Laurel with a frown. “One would only know about everything happening in the kingdom if one were in a position to where they were required to know such things. While I’m not exactly privy to the idea of such absolute power, he seemed like a fit ruler to me, should he become one, though perhaps it would be better if he wasn’t a prince at all. I would find it much more admirable if he knew those things simply because he actually cared about the people around him, not because he was forced to do so.” 

A squirrel threw a piece of cheese at him. “Yes, you’re right, I’m overthinking this,” Laurel admitted. “It was just a dream. But it really was nice to hear about life outside of the forest, even if it wasn’t real at all.” 

He finished his cheese and fruit and stood, wiping the crumbs off his lap. He picked up his basket, waved at the animals to follow, and resumed his walk (and his poem, at that).

 

Meanwhile, a real prince was riding about the same forest, unbeknownst to Laurel. This prince was, of course, Rene Grantaire, who had been chased out of his father’s castle for being too much of a nuisance. To be fair, life as a prince was extremely boring to the prince Grantaire. He cared little about politics, and he cared even littler about the pompous nobles that roamed about the castle. There were only so many hours he could spend holed up in his room reading or playing harp or, most likely, drinking his woes away, before he had to open the doors to stop himself from going crazy. Thus, he had made his way down to the kitchen to bother the cooks, but they were far too busy preparing for some important celebration or another that Grantaire couldn’t really care less about, and they kicked him out. So he went to the stables and fetched his favorite horse, Bahorel, to go for a ride in the woods and clear his head.

The forest was much more serene than the clamor of the castle, and Grantaire focused only on the sound of Bahorel’s pounding hooves and the flurry of green passing by as they went. He had to admit, it wasn’t just the commotion from the castle that had urged him to flee. In fact, he had quite a bit more on his mind--namely, his upcoming marriage to the prince of the neighboring kingdom. He had never met the prince before, and had heard absolutely nothing of his appearance or temperance from his parents or the common-people. He was afraid that his groom would find him unfit, ugly and boyish; Grantaire already thought himself these things, and he did not need someone who was eventually supposed to love him to affirm these dark thoughts. 

He shook his head, banishing such worries from the harsh grasp of his mind, and pressed on. It really was a lovely day--the sky was blue and interspersed with fluffy white clouds, the birds chirped in harmony with a beautiful voice from deep in the forest, and the sun cast such warm speckles of light through the trees…

That voice! Grantaire pulled on the reins, and Bahorel whinnied to a stop, looking none too happy about it. “Do you hear that?” he asked his horse, looking around to see if he could spot its origins. It was clear and beautiful--almost song-like in its cadence. He and Bahorel sat and listened for a while, relaxed by the soft changes of inflection, but too far away to make out any of the words. “C’mon,” urged Grantaire, flicking the reins, and Bahorel dashed off once more.

They stopped every so often so as to determine if they were getting closer. Eventually, the voice grew to its loudest, and Grantaire could see movement just a bit beyond the trees, but he was blocked by a clear blue river. “Here, boy,” he said soothingly as he dismounted, petting his horse’s face. He tied the reins loosely around a tree as Bahorel grumbled, looking accusingly at the water. “I’ll be back soon, and don’t you run off anywhere,” said Grantaire with a final pat, bounding towards the river. 

He noticed a small cropping of rocks just underneath the surface, creating a viable path across the stream; he undid his boots and socks and made his way across, not bothering to put them back on once he reached the opposite bank. He liked the feeling of grass tickling his soles, regardless. 

He tiptoed closer and closer to the voice, making sure not to be seen lest it be an easily frightened maiden. Indeed as he approached, he began to see a young person walking, their back to Grantaire, not alone, but with a veritable crowd of all types of woodland creatures at their feet and around their head. Grantaire had not known such animals to be able to understand human speech, but they all seemed to listen, enraptured, to the person’s voice.

“Love, thine is the future,” the person was saying, not as if they were speaking to badgers and finches, but rather leading an army to battle. “In the future, there shall be neither darkness nor thunder, neither ferocious ignorance nor blood exchanged for blood. In the future, nobody shall know an enemy nor stranger, and the earth will be radiant, and people will love again. That day shall come, when all shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and life…” 

What beautiful words, thought Grantaire, however empty they might be. He had seen firsthand the types of people that lived in the kingdom--they were rich but unloving and would do anything to gain more power. The world was filled with hate and jealousy and anger… A memory flashed through his head at the thought, but he could recall nothing but darkness and the screaming of a baby. 

The person began to move away from Grantaire’s vision and he followed after them again, though he failed to watch his step and stepped on a fallen branch, which crackled loudly. The person whirled around, surprised, and their entourage scattered. 

“Er, sorry about that,” Grantaire said, righting himself and grinning sheepishly at the person, who, now upon seeing their face, was definitely male. His eyes were wide and he looked about ready to run away himself. “Please, don’t be frightened, I was just drawn here by the magic in your voice.”

“I wasn’t aware I had an audience,” said the man stiffly, tightening his shawl around his head. Underneath it, Grantaire noticed his long yellow hair that shimmered, even in the shadows. “And I’m really not supposed to talk with strangers.”

“Well I’m no stranger, you said it yourself,” said Grantaire with as charming a smile as he could muster. “‘In the future, nobody shall know an enemy nor stranger, and the earth will live happily ever after, kumbaya-ing into the sunset’...sorry, I can’t seem to recall the rest. Who wrote such a beautiful fantasy, anyway?”

“It’s not fantasy,” the man replied with a huff. “And I’m the one who wrote it.”

“Why, you!” exclaimed Grantaire, taking the man’s hand in his own calloused ones. “You have such a way with words, my dear; are you a poet, coming out into the woods for a stroke of inspiration? Or perhaps an orator, using the wood mice as an audience to test out your next speech?”

 

The man looked both annoyed and amused, but made no motion to remove his hand from Grantaire’s. “You are a terrible guesser,” he said. “I live secluded in these woods and my only joy and freedom is to write. The animals do make a good audience, as you proposed, and they listen quite intently where a person might be bored or angered by my oration. A better audience than you, at any rate, for they do not go around interrupting me with broken branches and spouting nonsense when I know not even their name.”

“Regardless of mine own actions, the animals surely do not fare better,” admitted Grantaire with a shrug. “And I am called Grantaire, my dear.” He leaned down to press a kiss to the man’s outstretched hand, but no sooner than he had done so did Laurel snatched it away to his chest, cheeks flushed pink.

“Laurel,” said the man. “And whatever do you mean?”

Grantaire gestured to the birds that were eavesdropping from the trees. “They have no words for themselves, Laurel,” he said, shaking his head dramatically. “They may listen, but how on earth would they be able to refute the balderdash coming from your perfect lips?” A nearby black crow cawed in agreement.

“Balderdash!” Laurel cried. His face flushed redder, but Grantaire suspected it to be not from shyness but from frustration this time.

“Balderdash,” Grantaire affirmed sadly. “You live alone in the woods with nobody but the bunnies to keep you company. How would you know anything of the real world, of love, of blood, or of people? You know nothing outside these trees, and clearly you do not wish to, for if you did, you would leave at once for a city or town to experience what real people do.”

“I am not alone,” fumed Laurel, gritting his teeth. “I live with my parents, and they tell me what the world is like, and I read books and stories about everything I cannot know, and trust me, sir Grantaire, that if I had the opportunity to leave these damned woods and live among those I would call friends, I would take it in no longer than the single beating of a heart!” And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

“Laurel!” called Grantaire, chasing after him once more. He grabbed gently at the young man’s arm and turned him back around, only to see a large tear blossoming like a spring white daffodil at the corner of a blue almond eye. “My Laurel, I meant not to offend your sensibilities, I yearned only to spark discussion. Had I known I would strike such a place deep in your heart, I would have said nothing at all.” He pressed a thumb to Laurel’s cheek, swiping away the single tear. 

“It is of no matter,” replied Laurel, calming himself. “It is just that I have wished for nothing but freedom for all my years, and I would like more than anything to be able to go and meet with the world and the people I write about. I appreciate your boldness, and you are correct, as neither the animals nor my godparents ever contradict my speeches.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone must do it,” said Grantaire. He glanced back across the river to Bahorel, who was chewing lazily on some nearby clover. “Listen, if you’d like, I could take you to see the castle town? It is where I live, and there is supposed to be a large celebration tonight for an event I cannot seem to recall. You would be able to see the people rejoicing in love and harmony as you say, and we could continue our discussion over your writings, if you would be so inclined to share more of your writing and melodious voice.”

Laurel considered this, and nodded. “Thank you dearly, Grantaire, and I accept your offer. Pick me up at nine in the evening, for then my parents should be asleep and will not question my absence, as long as we are back before morning sun.” At this, Grantaire received the first true smile of the young man in their meeting, and it was as beautiful as the sun above their heads. “And be prepared, for I will bring more material to prove you and your cynicism naught!”

“I look forward to it, my dearest Laurel,” said Grantaire with a returning grin, pressing his hand once more to the young man’s face before going off to meet his disgruntled horse.

 

During this serendipitous meeting, Cosette, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were busy preparing for Laurel’s birthday gifts, to be given before taking him to the castle for his eighteenth birthday party, the reunion of child with parents and kingdom, at long last. But they didn’t focus on this, afraid that they might become too sorrowful at the idea of giving up their child of eighteen years; instead, they focused on his cake and his suit: the first because Laurel had never had such a sweet before, and the second because he only had a few garments, and none were suitable for such a large celebration. Cosette had once more made the long trip into town and fetched ingredients and cloth for these items, and had also passed by the bookstore. She knew Enjolras would be thrilled to receive new reading material, but once he was living in the castle again, he would have a full library at his disposal, and it would be a waste of coin to buy any novels now, should he not find them favorable in comparison to the endless supply that would come in just a few days at most.

Courfeyrac had taken over the making of the suit and Combeferre the baking of the cake. Cosette was relegated to cleaning duty, which she despised, especially as she was confident she could sew a better garment than Courfeyrac and concoct a sweeter cake than Combeferre.

“Er, what’s a tisp?” called Combeferre from the kitchen. Courfeyrac did not look up from where he was stitching gaudy velvet bows to the lapels of what could very liberally be called a suit jacket and shrugged.

“A teaspoon,” responded Cosette, slightly in awe of the thing of immense ugliness in front of her. The suit was flaming red and probably could fit a gorilla quite well, or perhaps a man with an intense hunchback and was eight months pregnant. 

“Ah, of course,” muttered Combeferre. There was a series of crashes from the kitchen, and Cosette forced her eyes to leave the monstrosity as she went to check up on the blue fairy.

The kitchen was in shambles--flour covered everything with a fine mist, egg yolk was splattered haphazardly across the table, and the batter was somehow oozing from its pan onto the floor. Cosette wordlessly dipped her finger into the dough and almost gagged. “It will taste better once it’s baked,” said Combeferre matter-of-factly. 

Cosette just sighed and returned to the drawing room, where Courfeyrac continued to work on the awful suit. It had somehow gotten much, much worse in the few seconds Cosette had left it alone, and was covered with tacky sashes and flowers and ribbons in the most inappropriate of places.

Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre were too wrapped up in their work to notice as Cosette slipped upstairs and snatched the old box underneath Laurel’s bed. Inside were their wands, unused for eighteen years. Cosette collected them and hurried determinedly downstairs.

“Listen,” she said loudly, forcing her fellow fairies to look at her. “I appreciate your efforts, but Laurel deserves the best for his birthday. Must we really present him with a cake that tastes like dirt and a suit that will fall apart at the seams?”

Combeferre frowned. “I told you it would taste better once baked.”

“My sewing skills are impeccable, mind you!” huffed Courfeyrac with a pout. “And what if the witch catches wind of our magic? It’s his eighteenth birthday; we’ve made it this far, and we shouldn’t risk it.”

Combeferre frowned and glanced around the kitchen, which was still a miserable-looking mess. “Cosette’s right,” he admitted. “Laurel deserves better. Close all the doors and lock all the windows--we want not a peep of the outside able to look in.”

 

And so they ran about, Courfeyrac still grumbling about his abandoned masterpiece, shutting all the doors and stuffing handkerchiefs in the cracks in the windows. Finally, Cosette redistributed their wands and they all waved them experimentally. Three showers of sparks fell from the tips, and they gave a collective sigh of relief. 

“It feels so good to have magic again,” said Courfeyrac, and the other fairies agreed before getting to work. Combeferre regained control of the kitchen, spoons and cups whizzing around as he measured ingredients. Courfeyrac pulled out more rolls of cloth, miracuously coming together in a union of needles and thread. And Cosette happily cleaned up after them, joyous at the thought of their godson returning to such gifts.

Joyous, that is, until she saw that Courfeyrac was continuing to use such awful red fabric for the entirety of the garment. “Why must you use such an ugly color?” she said, frowning, as she enchanted another broom to go clean up some fallen thread. 

“I think red’s a wonderful color,” said Courfeyrac with a sniff. “Red, the color of desire, and a fiery heart…”

Cosette just hmphed, looking as if she would go back to cleaning, but the moment Courfeyrac had his back turned, she pointed her wand at the suit and whispered, “Make it white!” White sparks flew, and indeed the fabric turned white in the blink of an eye. 

Courfeyrac spun around. “Cosette!” he exclaimed, turning back to the suit. “Make it red!” Red sparks flew, and indeed the fabric turned right back to red.

“That color is terrible,” mourned Cosette. “Red is far too intense, and will make him look absolutely mad!”

“It’s better than white,” retorted Courfeyrac. “He is no delicate and humble flower, and white will make him look like a complete pushover!”

Cosette crossed her arms. “White is the color of purity, and innocence, and perfection--would you not like him so be seen as so?”

“Well, red is the color of strength and love, and would you not want him seen as such? He is a prince, not a soft blushing bride!”

“Men can be soft and still be strong, and I resent your implications otherwise! Make it white!”

“Make it red!”

“White!”

“Red!”

And so on and so forth. White and red magic flew all about the little cottage, most missing the garment altogether. So enraptured were the two fairies in their fight that they almost did not notice the insistent knocking on the door.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Cosette muttered, slipping the garment from its form and laying it out nicely beside the cake. “And make it white!”

 

Laurel was just returning from his rather eventful walk when he saw plumes of white and red smoke swirling up from the chimney. How strange, he thought to himself. He approached the door quickly and knocked. “Hello?” he called. “Cosette? Combeferre? Courfeyrac? Are you alright?” 

His knocking was interrupted by the low cawing of a crow on the roof. “Shoo, shoo,” Laurel said with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t one for old superstitions, but a crow on one’s porch was a sign of bad luck, and he wished not to bring such harm upon his godparents, even if it was just an old wives’ tale. 

Laurel finally just tried the knob, and found it unlocked. He pushed it open and was about to call for his parents once more, but was startled by a shout of “Surprise!”, and Cosette and Courfeyrac jumping out from behind the furniture.

“Oh!” he cried, looking around the room, which had been decorated with ribbons of every color, and noticed a large, tiered cake resting hot on the table. Beside it was a shimmering white suit, laid carefully over a chair. “What is all this?”

“We have something very important to tell you,” said Combeferre with a smile. 

“How about you sit down, dear, and we can eat while we discuss,” said Courfeyrac, leading Laurel to the table. 

They sliced the cake and Laurel delighted in its sweet flavor. This was rather unlike his past birthdays, where they had just all gone out and swam in the river together or gathered around Laurel as he read one of his poems to celebrate. He was thankful for such occasions to be with his family, of course he was, but he hoped this year would be the year they might let him leave the woods. What a wonderful gift that would be, he thought, as he savored the taste of the cake.

“Listen,” said Combeferre, once they had finished. “First you must know that we love you very much, and it has been a blessing to us to be able to watch you grow into the young man you are today. Every day of these eighteen years we have admired your brilliant mind, your hopeful soul, and your passionate heart, and we are so happy to have been able to be with you for so long.”

“So, so happy,” emphasized Courfeyrac, resting a hand atop Laurel’s. “Of course you are our beloved godchild, but more than that, you are a faithful friend to us all, and we hope you know this.”

“I do,” said Laurel, greatly moved by their gesture. Where he could usually find words to express his immense feelings of gratitude and love, here, he could find none, and simply pressed a kiss to each of their cheeks, and they all joined together in a silent embrace. 

Cosette was the one to break it with soft words and an even softer hand on Laurel’s arm. “You must understand us when we say these things, so you will not misconstrue what we say next,” she said. “This is very important news we tell you, and you must not take it faintly.”

“No, I will not,” said Laurel. “Please, for I will sooner die of suspense!”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette all shared a final look before Courfeyrac stepped forward. “We are going to the castle tonight for your birthday celebration. You shall be welcomed by all the men of the kingdom, for you are the prince Enjolras, finally to return home for your eighteenth birthday! You will meet your real parents, and greet the people that exalt you so, and speak at once with your future husband, and you shall rule over the people behind your father, the king, with the brilliance, hope, and passion we know lie in your heart!”

Laurel--the prince Enjolras--was quiet, looking blankly about the smiling faces of his godparents. “Surely you kid?” he asked. “You are playing a joke on me.”

“No, it is the truth,” responded Combeferre. 

“But I--” Enjolras stumbled upon his words, which was never so before. “I have no desire to be a prince.”

“Haven’t you?” asked Cosette gently. “Imagine, all the books you could ever read, all the paper and ink you could ever need, and Enjolras, don’t you write so often about the world and the people in it? You would no longer be secluded to these woods--”

“In exchange for what?” said Enjolras brusquely, moving jerkily out of her grasp. “I exchange the limits of these trees for the shackles of the monarchy? I have read the history books; I have heard the horrors that their iron fists inflict upon their unwilling people. I have no desire--in fact, I simply despise the idea of being chained to such tyrants!” 

“You are being unreasonable,” said Combeferre, hiding his distress with a stern tone. “You do not have to rule like those in the past; you are capable of being a good prince who leads with kindness rather than greed. You will leave a legacy of justice and glory upon your subjects, and what greater thing is there?”

“To be free,” replied Enjolras, and he ran up the stairs to his room and despaired.


	2. Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm not as happy with this chapter as I am the first, I am glad I managed to finish it so quickly, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Warning for violence and blood towards the end. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

They left at sunset. The fairies did not risk the magic needed to renew their wings, and rather bustled to the nearest town to purchase a horse and carriage. Enjolras was quiet the whole ride, and found no joy in seeing the people he had longed to meet for so many desperate years. The fairies were deeply saddened at Enjolras’ reactions, but knew that, perhaps in time, he would see how they were just looking out for his best interest. 

When they arrived at the castle town, it seemed that every person in the kingdom was awaiting the return of their prince that they had not seen for so long. None of them knew that it was in fact their prince in the cart beside them, his impeccable white suit covered by a dark shawl. His head was raised in defiance, and did not falter, even as silent tears bloomed in the corners of his eyes like white columbines. 

“What is troubling you, child?” asked Cosette, grasping his hand.

“I did not tell you earlier, but I met a man on my walk today,” he replied quietly. Combeferre looked ready to reprimand him on talking to strangers, but Courfeyrac silenced him with a well placed look. “He listened to my writing and told me he would take me into town to experience this very celebration, though neither he nor I knew it was my own. I wish I could go back to that time and speak with him some more, and never have learned of this fate at all.”

Cosette squeezed his hand, and the three fairies anguished silently over Enjolras’ pain. “It is not as bad as you think,” said Courfeyrac softly. “Soon you will have everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

“You could offer me all the gold and glory and power in the world and still I would deny it,” said Enjolras coldly. His tone made for no further discussion, and the carriage was silent accordingly.

They finally reached the castle and brought Enjolras up to his new bedroom, prepared specially for him by his parents, the king Stephan and queen Eliza. It was decadent and beautiful, and Enjolras hated it so. The three fairies led him to the vanity and sat him down, taking off his shawl and releasing his hair from its queue. 

“You look beautiful,” murmured Cosette as she placed a sparkling diamond tiara upon his golden head. Enjolras said nothing, staring solemnly forward at his stoic, miserable reflection. 

The three fairies shared a look behind his back. “We will give you some time alone before the celebration begins, alright?” said Courfeyrac, and was not surprised when he received no answer. The fairies left and closed the door behind them. 

 

Meanwhile, prince Grantaire had finally found the cottage nestled deep in the woods after taking much too long to search for it. He did not even bother to tie Bahorel up, for he was far too eager to see the beautiful Laurel once more. 

He knocked and knocked, pleading through the door. “I’m so sorry I’m late, dear Laurel, but if you would just come out, we still have time to see everything we might see before daybreak! I have packed a picnic for dinner, for us, and wine--lots and lots of wine!” The house was as silent as ever, and all that could be heard was the cawing of a crow somewhere in the trees above. He sighed and jiggled the doorknob once more. Surprisingly, the door fell open. “Huh,” he said, and walked in.

The cottage was completely deserted as if in a hurry. Dirty plates were stacked in the kitchen, and a few scraps of fabric lay haphazardly on the floor. He walked up the stairs, a small bit frightened. “Laurel?” he called uncertainly, but of course there was no answer. He made his way to what he assumed was Laurel’s bedroom. Inside was only a bed, two sagging bookcases, and a desk, messy with ink and paper. He picked up one of the pages with a smile and began to read. No sooner had he finished the first paragraph was he hit very hard against the back of the head and his vision went black.

 

He woke up with a pounding headache. His eyes adjusted slowly to the low light of the dungeon, and he groaned and flinched away at the screeching sound of the massive door in front of him creaking open ominously. He attempted to shield his hears to the terrible grating noise, but he quickly realized they were in chains behind him, locked to the large, crumbling brick wall. He kept his eyes down as he heard footsteps approach, unwilling to acknowledge his captor.

“Well, if it isn’t the prince Grantaire,” sneered the woman. “I must say, the prince I was searching for when I went to that ugly little cottage was a bit more blond.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” responded Grantaire, “but I think blond would look terrible with my complexion.” The woman’s shoes were shiny and black and had the pointiest heel he had ever seen, he thought with a gulp.

“Not you, you imbecile!” the witch shouted. “The prince Enjolras, of course!”

 

“Never heard of him,” replied Grantaire with a shrug, aiming for nonchalant. He was terrified--he had no idea who this woman was, or why she would capture him, and he was starting to feel more than a little sick. He needed a drink.

The woman cackled. “Never heard of him? Is it not that you are scheduled to marry the man in a fortnight?” 

“Ah,” said Grantaire. He had forgotten, though to be fair, his mind had been on other more pressing issues at the time. “That Prince Enjolras.”

“Indeed,” said the witch condescendingly. “That Prince Enjolras, the one whom I cursed all those years ago to prick his finger and fall dead before his eighteenth birthday--and tonight, that shall come true!” At this, she laughed maniacally. “It would have been sooner, had he not hidden himself from me in the woods, but his stupid fairies’ magic finally gave him away. And just in time, too…”

She prattled on some more about evil this and that, but Grantaire had stopped really paying attention at that point. Instead, he was thinking very hard, and things were starting to come together. The prince he was set to marry was Prince Enjolras, whom he had never met. They had never met because he was sent to live secluded in the woods to shield himself from a terrible curse. 

The person he had met that day in the forest was not a simple peasant boy, but rather the Prince Enjolras, who was to die tonight before his eighteenth birthday.

Laurel was to die tonight.

“You mustn’t,” interrupted Grantaire desperately, finally looking up to meet her devilish eyes. “He has done no harm to you nor anyone else in this vast kingdom! If it is a prince you wish, then you may have one--I have no desire to go on living if he must die. Please, I beg of you, have mercy, and kill me instead!”

The witch just laughed. “Is it true? I had not thought it possible so quickly, but it seems to me that you love him!”

Grantaire spat at her, but she was not swayed. “This shall make things much easier, won’t it?” said the witch, thrusting her staff close to Grantaire’s face. He recoiled, but the chains prevented him from moving much further. His eyes were drawn unwillingly to the green orb sitting atop the scepter, and he could not look away. A green fog swirled at the edges of his vision, and, entranced as he was, he could only barely hear the voice that entered his ears, a voice that sounded startlingly similar to his own, say, “I am coming, my dear prince Enjolras…”

For the second time that evening, his vision faded to nothing.

 

Enjolras sat at the vanity for a little while, stewing over his options. He could try to escape, but he knew that his godparents were likely still just outside the door, so opening it would be futile. Even if he were to escape, there would be guards stationed everywhere around the castle. Well, it was of no matter. There was still much time before the start of the ceremony, and surely he would come up with a way to free himself before it. He was very determined, and--

Suddenly, he heard a muffled voice coming from somewhere outside the empty bedroom. “Enjolras!” it said. “Enjolras, it’s me!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Enjolras as he stood. “Is that you, Grantaire? Where are you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Grantaire’s voice. “You want to escape, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Enjolras with a sigh of relief at the voice of his friend. “Yes, please! I cannot live here, you know I cannot; I wanted nothing more than to see the lives of the people with you, not be forced to live as a prince in chains!”

“I know, Enjolras,” said Grantaire tenderly, “that is why I’m here to help you! Go near the fireplace, and press your hand through the fire--worry not, it is but an illusion--and you will find a crack in the stone under the ashes. Press on this, and a door will open.”

Enjolras bounded over to the fireplace and did as Grantaire’s voice instructed, and indeed, the back of the fireplace disappeared, and a stairway was revealed. “Grantaire?” Enjolras called, and his voice echoed across the steps. “Are you in here?”

“Yes,” said Grantaire, and though his voice was loud enough, it did not echo upon the stone. “I am at the top of the stairs, hurry up, or else someone might come!”

Enjolras darted up the stairs, his hand pressing up against the cool wall, for there was not much light in the narrow staircase, and he did not want to miss a step and fall.

He finally reached the top, and there was Grantaire, who welcomed him with an embrace. His skin was cool, and his hands rough where they sat on Enjolras’ hips when he pulled away. “My Enjolras,” he said. “My dearest Enjolras; I had gone to your cottage and found you missing, so I immediately went back to the castle, only to hear that you had returned to the kingdom, and this celebration was for you! But we have no time for stories--I have the magic that can take you out of here.” He stepped to the side and revealed a spinning wheel, which Enjolras had not noticed before, but now that he had, his eyes could not look away. “Just prick your finger on the spindle, and you will be transported back to the woods where nobody shall find you. I will follow suit, and we can be together.”

“Alright,” said Enjolras, hardly thinking to be skeptical of his friend’s plan, for he was far too happy at the idea of leaving the castle and its royalty behind. “All I must do is touch it?”

“Yes,” replied Grantaire with an earnest nod. “We shall go back to the woods, and I can take you to meet everyone, and nobody shall know you were ever a prince at all.”

And so Enjolras pricked his finger. He fell limp to the ground, and, unable to move, he watched as Grantaire’s body became shrouded in a green fog before transforming into something much darker and taller, and the room filled with a terrible energy that made it difficult to breathe. Enjolras’ eyelids fluttered shut, and the last thing he heard was the cawing of a crow before falling into deep, deep slumber.

 

“Enjolras?” called Cosette, knocking on the door. “Enjolras, it’s time to go down for the ceremony, you must come out of there.” There was no response, and when she tried the knob, it was unlocked, and the three fairies proceeded into the bedroom. 

It was empty. The prince was nowhere to be found. They waved their wands frantically, flinging sparks at every inch of the room to discover where he had gone. Finally, Combeferre shot at the cold fireplace, which crumbled under his magic. Behind it was a dark spiralling staircase, which they immediately ran towards. “Enjolras!” they all shouted, to no response. Worry filled their chests, and they each tried desperately not to imagine the worst. 

At last they reached the top of the stairs. “Oh, no,” cried Cosette, flinging herself over the motionless body of the prince. “What have you done?”

Combeferre desperately checked the beating of his heart. “It is slow, but he is asleep, and has not perished.”

Courfeyrac motioned to the decrepit spinning wheel in the corner of the small room. A small chrysanthemum of blood blossomed at the very tip. “He must have been tricked into pricking his finger, for he never knew of the curse put upon him.” He stroked Enjolras’ serene face. “What are we to do? The king and queen will surely be distraught once they find out.”

“They won’t find out,” said Combeferre resolutely, standing from his place by the limp prince. “We shall put the entire kingdom to sleep until he wakes up.”

And so Cosette tucked the boy into his bed and locked the door behind her. The fairies flitted about the castle and surrounding town, leaving sparkling sleeping dust in their wake. They finished quickly enough and returned to the prince’s room, and they wept upon his childlike, sleeping face as the whole city fell asleep. 

“We must do something,” said Courfeyrac, wiping the wetness from his face. “We cannot let him, or the rest of the people, stay asleep forever.”

“We may have no other choice,” said Combeferre, stroking the prince’s unfeeling hand. “Unless his first true love happens to waltz in soon…”

Courfeyrac glared a little bit at Cosette. “I will be the first to admit that perhaps that was not one of my best ideas, but to be fair I also had no knowledge of that fact that he would never meet another person until he was a proper adult,” Cosette said defensively as she smoothed the prince’s yellow hair and adjusted his tiara. “Regardless, we do have another choice. It may not work, but it’s the only lead we have. We must find Thenardier and kill her, for only then might the curse be broken.”

The room was silent but for the breathy sighs of the sleeping Enjolras.

“She is far too powerful,” murmured Courfeyrac. 

“And we have no proof that her death shall wake up our prince,” reminded Combeferre.

Cosette stood up resolutely. “We swore to protect Enjolras, all those years ago, and now it is time to keep that promise. Would you sit here, mourning and cowardly, when there is even the smallest sliver of possibility that justice may be won?”

The other fairies shook their heads. 

“Well then let us make haste,” Cosette concluded. “The witch will surely be celebrating now, and will not be expecting us. Have we the mask of surprise, then our victory will certainly come more easily.”

And so they went once more, locking the door with one last despairing look at the sleeping boy.

 

Thenardier’s castle was perched on the tip of the tallest, rockiest mountain in the kingdom, just beyond the forest Enjolras had grown up in. Thunderclouds swirled around its many winding turrets and towers, and crows screeched and flew in swarms to deter anyone brave enough to approach. Thankfully the fairies had magic on their side, and they cast spells of protection and invisibility on one another. They flitted silently down the damp and dark corridors, searching for any sign of the evil witch. At the end of a long hall they found a rather imposing prison door. They would have thought nothing of it had Cosette not glanced through the barred window with a gasp. 

“What is it?” whispered Courfeyrac. Instead of answering, Cosette merely pushed the door open with a loud creak and entered the cell. 

Inside the cell was a man with dark curly hair and tattered clothing, slumped against the dilapidated brick wall. His hands were bound behind him, and he appeared to be asleep. The three fairies approached him, taking off the guise of invisibility as they did so. 

Combeferre rushed over and waved his wand, breaking the chains, and Courfeyrac rubbed circulation back into the man’s hands. Cosette woke the man with a well-placed slap to his scruffy face. 

“Ah!” The man awoke with a jolt, glancing furiously about the three fairies as he ripped his hands from Courfeyrac’s to rub at his now-red cheek. “Who are you?”

“We are the three good fairies,” said Cosette earnestly. “We have come to defeat the evil witch Thenardier and free Prince Enjolras from eternal sleep.”

“Prince Enjolras!” cried the man, jumping up from the dirty ground. “Yes, we must go save him--er, eternal slumber? I thought he was to die!”

“Cosette enchanted him to merely fall asleep after the curse had been placed,” explained Courfeyrac quickly. “He pricked his finger upon a spindle and fell into deep sleep, and we had to put the whole kingdom to sleep so they would not find out the fate of their prince.”

“Damn,” muttered the man, scratching his chin. “I always fall asleep during the action.”

Combeferre rose, irritated. “We must keep going,” he said. “You will help us, correct, mister…?”

“Grantaire,” said the man. “Prince Grantaire, and yes, of course. I would do anything for Laurel--that is, Prince Enjolras. I would black his boots if he asked. However…” 

“What is it?” asked Courfeyrac. “Come on then, out with it!”

“You have magic,” said Grantaire, gesturing towards their wands. “I have nothing but my hands, and I am useless even with those. How might you expect me to help?”

Combeferre waved his wand with a flourish, and a sword and shield of platinum appeared in Grantaire’s hands. 

“Will that do,” said Combeferre drily. 

“Indeed,” said Grantaire, and they left the cell in a hurry. 

 

Finally they found the massive dining hall of the castle, filled with Thenardier’s gremlin-like cronies, eating a large feast. Their chalices were filled with blood and their plates were filled with carrion and they hollered like beasts in celebration of the supposed death of the prince. Watching over them was the witch Thenardier, who overlooked the party with a smug curl of her lip. 

The fairies and Grantaire quickly ducked back behind a corner into the shadows so as not to be spotted. Combeferre whispered an invisibility spell over all of them and blue sparks flew, and they crept silently into the dining hall, making sure not to bump into anything lest they give themselves away. Grantaire went the fastest, approaching Thenardier’s throne with little of the care taken by the three fairies. 

“Be cautious,” warned Courfeyrac in a whisper as Grantaire passed, but the man gave no indication he had heard. Instead, he marched up the steps to stare Thenardier head on, though of course the witch would not know. He pointed his sword at the space just underneath the witch’s ear and, with a shaking hand, pulled it back to slice off the woman’s head. He breathed in to steady himself, and swung--

\--but his sword met the witch’s staff with a metallic clang.

“You really think I would not notice you here in my castle?” she said with a cruel smile. Grantaire felt stuck, unable to move as his sword trembled against Thenardier’s scepter. “It is sickening. You and your fairy friends emit such a terrible aura, it would be difficult to ignore its pungence. In fact, I’d like to rid the world of it right now!”

And with that, the orb on her staff emanated a green light. Grantaire and the fairies became visible once more, and Grantaire’s sword crumbled to dust. 

“You people are mighty troublesome,” said Thenardier as she stood, pushing Grantaire back with her staff on his chest. “But I’m afraid you find yourselves outnumbered.”

The dining hall erupted in a massive riot. Gremlins attacked the fairies at once and crows cawed and screamed overhead. Chairs were thrown and blood was spilled, though whether it was from a gremlin or a fairy or simply the glasses from the feast was anyone’s guess. Thenardier kept pushing Grantaire back until he collapsed at the bottom of the stairs leading to the throne, cowering behind his platinum shield, at least until the witch tapped it with her scepter and it, too, was destroyed, falling apart in Grantaire’s hands.

“So sad,” she said mockingly as she kneeled to look Grantaire in the eye. “You loved him, and you hardly got any time together… It seems now you will have to make do in the afterli--”

It was at this time that all those stupid combat classes required by his father that Grantaire dreaded made themselves useful. Grantaire punched Thenardier in the nose as hard as he could. At the crack of it breaking and her surprised gasp, Grantaire tackled the witch to the ground and snatched the orb from its place on her scepter. She flailed wildly about, shouting curses and calling for her gremlins or her crows, but was not heard over the commotion. Grantaire raised the orb above his head and smashed it over Thenardier’s face. Green smoke seeped out of the magical glass, and the witch screamed and clawed at her cheeks as it burned her eyes and nose. She had stopped kicking at Grantaire’s back, and he took the opportunity to slip one of the shoes off her feet. He braced himself before plunging the blade-sharp heel into her neck. She let out a final screech as thick black blood poured out of the wound before losing the light in her cruel eyes and falling limp to the ground. 

Grantaire stood and turned to the mass of fighting behind him. He raised the witch’s scepter, his hand drenched in blood, and cried, “Your queen is dead! You have nothing to fight for! Let us leave or we shall kill you all!”

This was not exactly true, as Grantaire himself kind of wanted to vomit at the thought of any more blood staining his hands. Thankfully the gremlins gradually grew silent and let Grantaire pass through the center of the hall, and Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre fell into line behind him. 

We must make quite a sight, thought Grantaire as they left. 

 

The ride back to the castle was a quiet one, illuminated by the stars. Grantaire had whistled once they had fully descended the mountain, and fortunately Bahorel had wandered close by when Grantaire had been taken by the witch, so he galloped valiantly to Grantaire when called. The fairies flew swiftly beside him, and Bahorel, usually unwilling to sprint so fast for so long, must have sensed their urgency, for he never let out even the slightest whinny at the exertion. 

Finally they returned to the castle town. The people wilting in the streets should have been more disconcerting than it was, but Grantaire had other things on his mind. When they arrived at the gate to Enjolras’ tower, Grantaire jumped off his horse and sprinted up the stairs, the fairies close behind. 

“Laurel?” he called, bursting through the door, but there was no answer. He was still peacefully asleep. 

Grantaire kneeled beside the boy’s bed and took the prince’s unmoving hand in his own as he wept. “You must awaken,” he cried softly. “What shall I do with you gone? You promised you would read me more of your sonnets and I would point out their mistakes. Meeting you was the best day of my miserable life, my dearest Laurel, you will not abandon me, and your friends, and your country like this, you will not! You are strong and courageous and beautiful, all far more than I, and I shall be contented to place my lips upon your delicate hand just once before taking your place and trading my life for yours, for it is you who deserves to keep it. Do you permit it?”

Enjolras’ finger twitched almost imperceptibly at that. Grantaire pressed his lips upon the back of the boy’s hand, and Enjolras’ eyes fluttered open.

 

Once they had briefed Enjolras over all that occured, he requested a private moment with Grantaire as the fairies left to go awaken the city, though not before each giving their friend a long embrace and a kiss on the forehead. 

“You did not tell me you were a prince,” said Enjolras accusingly, though he was still yet to pull his hand away from Grantaire’s, so he probably was not that angry (at least Grantaire hoped).

“Well, neither did you,” said Grantaire.

“I had no idea I was a prince until a few hours ago,” said Enjolras. “And I wish I had never known.”

“Never?” questioned Grantaire. “Not even in the case that we are to be married in but two weeks?”

Enjolras sighed. “Never.” 

“But it was my true love’s kiss that woke you up,” pointed out Grantaire, trying not to be hurt. He was already deeply enamoured with Enjolras, and he wished desperately that the other boy would feel the same. “Does that not mean we are to be lovers forever, and so is marriage not the best option?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras cautiously, “but I have thought upon it greatly, and is marriage not just another form of bondage to such detested royalty? No matter how much I love you, and you me, getting married would be playing right into the hands of our parents. They care not for love, but for power and land. It would be better, I think, to run away, and take Cosette and Courfeyrac and Combeferre with us, of course, and I could publish some of my writing, and perhaps get a following of people who agree with me, about the innate oppression of citizens under a monarchy, and--”

Grantaire quieted his Laurel with a laugh and a kiss to the lips. Marriage or not, they would certainly live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Columbine flowers represent deserted love.
> 
> Chrysanthemums are used at funerals, and are often used to mean death and grief.
> 
> Hope you liked that silly fairytale story! It was a lot of fun to write and though I know the characters are pretty OOC I still had a good time, and I hope you did too. 
> 
> If you liked it even a tiny bit, please reflect that in kudos or comments or both. They mean the world to me!

**Author's Note:**

> A laurel symbolizes honor and strength. 
> 
> A single daffodil symbolizes loneliness and bad luck. 
> 
> A red rose, of course, symbolizes love and romance. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you like it so far! I was tempted to leave it all in one piece but I am not finished with the second part yet and wanted to get this out there.
> 
> Kudos and comments inspire me to write more, so if you liked it even a little bit, please please please express that with either or both of those things.


End file.
